


the fisherman's wife

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Five times Gary Neville could have kissed David Beckham but didn't (and the one time he shouldn't have but did)





	the fisherman's wife

**Author's Note:**

> this has been lying around as a wip since march 2016; i was on a 7 hour train with nothing to do and took pity on it
> 
> I will lose you.  
> It is written into this poem  
> the way the fisherman’s wife  
> knits his death into the sweater. 
> 
> \- _Gregory Orr_

**i.**

 

"Roomies, huh." 

"Looks like."

"Cool." 

Gary's not sure what you're supposed to say to roommates, especially roommates you don't choose. He's lived with Phil for so long that looking at another boy sitting on the edge of the bed should be so foreign, but it is and it isn't. There's a way that David's hair shines in the dim hostel light. Like stars. Yes, Gary thinks absently as he polishes his shoes for the next day. Like stars. 

They leave for one last round of training then come back again, David going straight to the telly. Gary brushes his teeth and gets into the bathtub and sits, allowing the cold water to run over his skin. If he listens hard enough he can hear David laughing at Only Fools and Horses outside. He closes his eyes and shuts the sound out, the way he shuts everything out before a game, but somehow it creeps in through cracks he never knew existed. 

David's just come out of the shower and he's rubbing at his hair with the towel when Gary's about to turn his side-light off. "It's nine," David says, blinking. Gary gives him a look.

"I know. Don't want to be tired for tomorrow." 

"The game's at four in the afternoon." 

Gary shrugs and says, "Just don't turn the volume up too loud." He's a little surprised when David nods, flops onto his bed, grabs the remote and brings it down to minimum. 

"Anything you say, skip," he grins. Gary rolls his eyes and dives under the covers. He almost manages to sleep, too.

But it's midnight when he slips out from bed and sits on its edge, just watching. The lights are out and the moon shines through the window, lighting up the stars that are David's hair, painting his profile a soft silver. David's breathing is even, another sound for the cracks. 

Gary stands up and leans over David, so that his shadow blocks off some of the moonlight. David doesn't move. Without knowing what he's doing Gary leans down until his lips are all of an inch away from David's cheek, and the short blonde hairs down the side of David's face flicker when he exhales. He lingers there for a minute, two minutes, five, not daring to do it and not daring to leave. 

Then he takes a step back, swallows, and climbs back into bed. This time he turns so that he's facing David and watches the stars for hours and for ever, drifting into a sea of red and gold.

 

**ii.**

 

"Treacle's coming back today." 

"Yeah?" 

"Thought you might want to be informed." 

Ryan's looking at him like he knows a secret. Gary shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, busying himself with spearing at the orange carrots on his plate. "How'd you find out?" he mumbles off-handedly, not specifying what it is that Ryan knows.

"Manager told me." Ryan wiggles his eyebrows. "Also, it's really obvious, Gaz."

"What are we talking about?" Nicky says, leaning in like he's been there from the beginning. Gary resists the urge to hurl a carrot at him. "Though if I did hear right and you used the words 'obvious' and 'Gaz' in the same sentence, then I've got my answer." 

Gary groans and leans over to cuff Nicky around the ear. "Is it really that obvious?" he whines, stabbing at his food with added intensity.

"Everyone with eyes," says Scholesy.

"Everyone with eyes except Becks," says Phil.

Gary gives everyone a dirty glare, stands up and stomps off to the equipment room. He fishes out a ball from the nets and begins to throw it against the wall, losing himself in the rhythm. It started off as practice, the twelve year old who only ever wanted to wear a red shirt and you couldn't do that if you didn't have a long throw. It turned into a ritual, the only thing that's going to get him into the first team. Throw-and-catch, throw-and-catch. No-big-deal, no-big-deal. Just-a-boy. Just-a-friend. Don't-like-him. Don't-love-him.

"Gaz." 

I-love-him. 

Gary turns around, eyes wide, the ball rolling harmlessly into a pile of nets in the corner. "Becks," he says dumbly, his throat drying up like a puddle in the sun. David smiles at him, still all pasty and lanky and curtain-haired, like he never left and Preston North End could never call him their own, even for a little while. 

(He's lost count of how many times he's had to say  _ David Beckham, Manchester United _ under his breath to remind himself.) 

"How're you?" 

"Good. How have you been?" 

Gary sticks out his hand for David to shake. David ignores it and goes straight to hug him, his breath warm against Gary's cheek. "Don't be such a twat, Gaz," he says easily, the Cockney notes in his voice as comforting as a favourite song. "We've known each other how fucking long?"

Gary takes him in, all his corners and the edges he takes care to smooth out, Leytonstone and Salford rolled into one. I won't leave, they seem to tell him. I'll never leave. And he, eighteen, in love with his best friend, his lips just shy of David's, chooses to believe. 

  
  


**iii.**

 

"You go first." 

"Don't be stupid."

"You deserve it." 

David grins at him and prances forward, the number ten gleaming on his back all white and blocky. A flood of  _ something  _ courses through Gary as he watches, punchy and raw in the way he doesn't want to admit. 

What, he asks himself angrily. What is it you want? 

Pally pushes him in the back and he stumbles forward, until he's standing right in front of David who's got the trophy in his hands and is raising it up high. He looks the happiest Gary has ever seen him.

Gary leans forward. David is so close, and maybe if he had turned, maybe if fate had intervened, something would have happened. Everyone knows what Gary's like when he's emotional; no one would have said anything about this at all. 

Except nothing happens. David doesn't turn and Gary buries his face in David's neck instead, feeling his heartbeat under his paper skin. Once, he thinks, stupidly, with no view to go beyond that. Everything is thought, everything is - what's that word? - hypothetical. 

David pulls away and passes him the trophy and he lifts it, his fingers closed tight on the silver metal. Manchester United, he thinks instead. They've won the FA Cup, they've gone and beat Liverpool, and that's all he has space in his heart for.

 

**iv.**

 

"I fucked up."

"No, you didn't." 

"Didn't you read? 'One stupid boy'. I fucked up." 

Gary's never seen David cry. Ever. He's seen tears stubbornly fight their way to the edges of his eyes, but he's seen him stubbornly fight them back. He's seen his lip wobble and his brow crease, and he's caught him once or twice hunched over with his shoulders shaking, but he's never seen him cry. Not like this.

They're on the plane back from France; it's a small, private jet, and they're sitting in pairs on seats that would've seemed too grand to Gary ten years ago. Most of the other lads have nodded off. No one wants to stay awake and think about what happened, what could have happened. It's common enough that they know how to deal with it by now, Gary thinks, twists his lip, all the nineties and ninety-sixes and  _ years of hurt  _ fresh in his memory.

England lose on penalties is a story they'll write again and again and again. This isn't David's fault, and everyone knows this but him.

He's trying very hard not to wake everyone up. But his voice keeps getting caught in his throat and he keeps having to drag it out of himself in this low, animal keening, his sobs wracking his frame like a wave hitting the sand. He cries into Gary's shoulder until Gary's suit jacket is all damp and Gary lets him, not sure what else to do, not sure how to fix it, even though he so desperately wants to.

This isn't the fairy tale that's supposed to play out. The blonde-haired, big-smiled, Wimbledon goal hero is supposed to swoop in and save the day, sending them into the final of a competition they hadn't won for thirty years, winning it. He's not supposed to be making a mess of his mate's jacket with his tears.

But fairy tales don't always play out, do they. Gary ought to know.

He puts one hand around David's back and holds it there while David cries, wishing he could have been sent off instead. David catches his breath and looks up at him, once, blinking ponderously.

"I'm scared, Gaz," he says.

Gary turns to face him. They're twenty three years old and have known each other for nine. David's golden hair has fallen across his forehead, framing his face with the glint of sunlight that dips through the aeroplane's half-shaded window. Gary can tell anyone all of David's quirks and flaws, like sometimes he cares too much about what people think of him, or how he drives Gary crazy rearranging the ltitle bottles in the hotel room toilets until they line up from small to big. He can tell anyone what makes David so much more than one stupid boy, like his selflessness and his kindness and the way he seems to give something of himself to everything he does.

David keeps looking and Gary could kiss him. For a whole number of reasons, for no reason in particular, but he could kiss him, right then and there. 

Instead he brings his hand to David's face, cups it, brushes the hair out of his eyes. There's nothing in it. A gesture between two friends. 

"Hey, mate," he says, his voice flat and unwavering. "It's only football."

 

**v.**

 

"Gaz." 

"We won the fucking league - "

"I think I'm leaving." 

It's funny, Gary thinks, how the world can come to a halt, even admist the twirl of confetti and the ribbons of red and white that flutter in the stadium breeze. 

The celebration trundles on in the background. Sir Alex has the crown on his head and even Scholesy's been dragged into the champagne, but Gary doesn't notice any of this. David is standing next to him, waiting for a response.

"Where?" he asks. His lips feel paper-thin and dry.

"Spain somewhere." David shrugs. Already there's something measured about his voice, guarded, in a way it never used to be, as if Gary were a pap making polite enquiries. "Both Madrid and Barcelona are interested." 

Gary's not a traveling kind of person. He's only been to Spain for matches, never for holidays. Doesn't know what it's like. Doesn't know if they'll love David as much as he loves him.

"When?"

"Before next season starts." 

It's sounds an awful long time to contemplate and yet Gary knows it'll be no time at all. They win the league, they get a month off, David hangs around at Gary's place while Victoria goes shopping, and then pre-season starts. That's the way it's been for nine years. 

Nine years. Longer than that, if you counted Coach Harrison, though they hadn't known each other so well then. Gary closes his eyes and remembers a stick-thin blonde boy with the toothiest grin. 

The next obvious question dies on his lips. David looks almost relieved that he doesn't ask.

"I'll miss you," he says instead.

Gary blinks, trying to figure out what it means, whether he should say it back. 

David's standing very close. It's not like they've never stood close before, but it's odd this time, David's fingers brushing the back of his hand, an intimacy that only comes with absence. 

In the end Gary decides not to say anything at all. He nods once, brief like he understands (he doesn't) and turns away to find Scholesy like he doesn't care (he does). Scholesy puts a hand on his shoulder, looks at David. David's walking towards the Stretford End by himself. The fans are standing up in concert, clapping, whistling, cheering his name. One David Beckham, they're saying. There's only one David Beckham.

Gary knows this better than anyone. He wishes he didn't. He wishes the toothy grin had turned around and gone back to where he'd come from, fading into the Leytonstone fog and obscurity.

  
  


**i.**

 

"Thanks for coming."

"Don't mention it." 

"Really. I appreciate it." 

They're at the airport, just two mates saying goodbye and see you soon. Victoria and Brooklyn will come later. David's flying off first to do his medical and all of that.

Gary can't bring himself to look at the departures board. He thinks he might be sick.

David is wearing a sharp coat and the flat cap Gary bought him for a birthday a while back, the one Phil had actually bought because he knew nothing about fashion. David had told him that he'd loved it, which at the time had been good enough.

Gary's wearing a black t-shirt and sneakers. He doesn't know what he's going to do without David to tell him what kind of tie to wear.

"I didn't bring you a present," he says, shuffling his feet. He's never been sentimental and he doesn't know why he's starting now.

David laughs. "You being here is enough, mate. I didn't even think you'd come." 

"Come off it, Becks, you know I would." 

They fall silent, content with looking at each other. Gary tries to remember everything about David's face, from his smile to the way his hair falls, knowing that it'll always be different from magazines and billboards.

"Well, then." David sticks out a hand. "I'll see you around." 

Gary brushes aside the hand and pulls him into a hug. "Don't be such a twat, Becks. We've known each other how long?" 

He feels David smile into his shoulder and a burst of love runs through him, sharp and gold, like the pounding of his heart or the ball against the wall. 

My-best-friend. Please-don't-go. I-need-you. You-are-United. You-belong-here.

"I-love-you," he says, quick before he can regret it. 

David pulls out of the hug and looks at him, one hand still slung around Gary's shoulder. Gary doesn't know what the expression in his eyes is - regret, sympathy, sadness. All of them are bitter flavours. 

"I know," he says.

There are thousands of people around them, and if so much as one person recognises David everything will be over. But Gary finds that he doesn't care. He's spent fifteen years trying to and it isn't  going to end like this.

He leans forward and kisses David, digs his fingers into the soft fabric of David's coat, holds him like he never wants to let go.

David doesn't kiss back. Gary understands; this is only for himself.

He breaks off, flushed, stumbles back a little and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sorry, he wants to say, but he doesn't know what good that'll do so he doesn't try. David gives him a soft, sad smile.

"Anything you say, skip," he says.

Then he turns and vanishes into the crowd, an endless throng of people hurrying to get somewhere only they know and care about. Gary puts his hands in his pockets and walks back to his car. He sits behind the wheel for a moment, doing nothing but breathing in. It still smells like David.

He starts the engine and drives.  

**Author's Note:**

> \- gaz and becks roomed together until their waking up times got too annoying  
> \- Becks starred in a [Only Fools and Horses sports relief sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPbDE5mkiU4)  
> \- Giggsy used to call Becks 'treacle' for no good reason  
> \- Gaz used to drive the first teamers crazy with his throwing a ball against a wall  
> \- Becks went on a loan to Preston North End in 1995  
> \- The scene that started this fic: [Gaz literally nuzzles Becks](https://youtu.be/BFv-dJMkx_g?t=1h49m50s) before claiming the FA Cup trophy in 1996  
> \- The Daily Mirror ran the 'ten heroic lions, one stupid boy' front page after England's 1998 world cup exit  
> \- Becks said he sobbed for the first time in years after he got off the plane back  
> \- Becks almost signed for Barca before Madrid got him  
> \- They talked about his leaving when they were celebrating the '03 win and apparently some lip readers picked them up? honestly  
> \- thanks for reading <3


End file.
